


AUs Nobody Asked For

by AnamaryArmygram



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: (Including Psychological Violence), Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, F/M, Female Napoleon, Fusion, Gen, Includes Art, Mostly Gen, Multiple Alternate Universes, Non-related ficlets, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Renamed Characters, Romance Novel AU, Slow To Update, Some OOC, Star Wars AU, Tags/Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-14 22:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnamaryArmygram/pseuds/AnamaryArmygram
Summary: Some Man From U.N.C.L.E. AUs that aren't tropes yet... for some reason.





	1. In Utero

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Forty-Nine Things That Probably Didn't Happen to the UNCLE and One That Probably Did](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382074) by [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman). 



Becky and Ekaterina used to have coffee together, but Ekaterina's been reading things, and they've both decided to quit. So now they drink iced tea and work with their hands. Ekaterina helps out in the back room of her husband's typewriter repair shop; Becky is a housewife and, unafraid of cliché, knits booties and caps.

Most of all, they talk about anything and everything: books they've been reading, plans and hopes and fears about the babies, their own childhood memories. Two voices, two accents, right up to the end.

Before Ekaterina's baby is born, while Becky's little Napoleon is still in the hospital nursery, Mr. Solo gets the news. He's been promoted – and transferred.

Years later, Napoleon wonders why he thinks his partner – who was born in Syracuse, New York, same as he was – ought to have a Russian accent. Is it just the name?


	2. Photonegative

* * *

A loud pop – an explosion of navy blue sparks – a puff of black smoke – and the room was plunged into total whiteness. Illya switched on his night-vision goggles, and everything – the ruined generator, the unconscious guard, and most importantly the door – reappeared, tinted a ghostly magenta.

Illya worked his way down the corridor, listening for any evidence of an organized reaction to the outage. There was only silence. Apparently he had managed to neutralize all of Dr. Jameson's personnel.

… But not Jameson himself. And, from what Illya knew of his character, the doctor was the type to react very noisily indeed.

Suddenly the silence seemed worrisome.

Also worrisome: a faint, almost imperceptible darkening of the view through the goggles.

Illya rounded a corner and was almost blinded by a flash of deep blackness from the end of the corridor. He whipped off the goggles. A door had swung open, and beyond it the room was dark.

There must be a second generator that he had failed to take into account. That meant that there had been no interruption in power, that Napoleon might still be undergoing the process…

Before he could worry about that, though, Illya would have to take out Jameson. And Jameson probably knew he had company – that door hadn't opened on its own.

The doctor confirmed Illya's suspicions by appearing, palely silhouetted, in the doorway.

Illya dashed down the bright corridor and took a feet-first leap at Jameson, who staggered backward, a satisfying white bootprint marring his otherwise immaculate black smock. Illya picked himself up and lunged at Jameson again, wresting him farther into the room, finally incapacitating him with a chop to the neck.

Napoleon was in the corner, lashed to a chair with a large quantity of thin blue rope, his head lolling. In front of him, on a low stand, stood a projector, its black beam trained on a wheel of transtenebrous colored lenses. A shutter allowed only one lens to be visible at a time. The wheel turned and turned, bathing Napoleon in jerkily alternating colors.

A device like this, Illya knew, was in itself merely a gentle tool of hypnosis. It would need to be combined with spoken suggestions – and a cocktail of drugs – to have any sinister power. But if he had correctly interpreted his brief glimpse of the schematic, he believed Dr. Jameson had solved at least half of that problem. The lenses themselves would be covered with tiny text, in an only faintly contrasting color – combining the power of hypnosis with the power of subliminal messaging, and eliminating the need for audible suggestions.

Seeing Napoleon's pathetic condition, Illya was tempted to shoot the mechanism a few times and be done with it. He forced himself to be colder. The lenses ought to be preserved: comparing the content of their suggestions with Napoleon's subjective experience of being brainwashed would yield valuable insights, both into THRUSH's plans for their captives and into the viability of this new technology.

Holding a hand up to avoid looking directly at the dark lenses, he searched and found two switches: one to kill the projector beam, one to stop the turning wheel.

Napoleon moaned. Under the steady dark blue glow of the ceiling lamp, he looked worse than ever. His white hair was disheveled and his shirt was shredded to almost nothing. Silvery cyan bruises stood out starkly against his blue-black skin.

Illya took off his watch, exposed the razor blade hidden within its band, and sliced away the ropes. Napoleon slumped sideways and Illya caught him beneath the armpits before he could fall out of the chair. “Napoleon!” he whispered sharply. “Can you hear me?”

Napoleon muttered something in reply.

“Can you stand?”

Napoleon muttered something else. It sounded affirmative, so Illya hoisted him to his feet and waltzed him over to the teal-brick wall. Napoleon sagged against it, his pale eyelashes fluttering.

“Stay there for a second,” said Illya, and turned his attention to the wheel. He unscrewed the hub nut and separated the shutter from the white disk in which the lenses were embedded. With the disk nestled in his crooked left arm, he turned back to his partner. “Can you walk?”

Napoleon took a couple of unsteady steps away from the wall. He allowed Illya to support him with his free arm, leaning heavily into the smaller man.

Illya kept them moving until they were well out of the compound. It was daytime by then, and Illya let Napoleon sprawl out on the purple grass for some much-needed rest. Meanwhile, he activated his communicator. The nightmare was almost over: now for the long process of waking up.

After he was done talking to Headquarters, Illya luxuriated in the sunshine. He was suddenly, absurdly thankful for every little black cloud in the cheerful dark orange sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of curiosity, does anybody know what that color-spinny brainwashing wheel thing is called? I've seen it on more than one '60s TV show, so I'm assuming it was a trope at some point (and possibly had some real or rumored-to-be-real science behind it), but I don't know what to search for to find out more.


	3. Star Wars

With the ozone stink of the blaster fight still rolling through the air, the two “stormtroopers” hurried into the circle of consoles while the blond Wookiee stood guard. A fallen officer lay sprawled across one console; Skywalker seized him unceremoniously by the back of the belt and heaved him to the floor.

Apolo Solo pounced on the console. “We've got to find out which cell this… prince of yours is in.” Laying down his blaster, he plied the unfamiliar controls. “Here it is. Two-one-eight-seven. You go and get him. We'll hold them here.”

Skywalker obligingly exited.

Solo removed his helmet and raked a gloved hand through his thick black hair. On the next console over, an intercom was beeping.

He found the respond button and spoke into the device: “Everything's under control here. Situation” – he glanced around at the carnage – “normal.”

“What happened?”

“A slight… weapons malfunction.” Solo's voice was calm and faintly sardonic, but his expression was pained.

Kuryyacca rolled his eyes.

* * *

The cell door hissed, waking Markus Organa from a light sleep. He raised himself onto one elbow. The figure at the door wore familiar white armor, but moved in an unfamiliar, hesitant way.

“Good morning, Guv,” said Markus insolently. “Say, aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?”

“Oh!” said the figure in a high-pitched voice. “The uniform.” She peeled off her helmet. “I'm April Skywalker. I'm here to rescue you.”


	4. Tu/Vous Distinction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenario gleefully stolen [from Alexander Pushkin](http://masterrussian.net/f13/usage-%D0%B2%D1%8B-%D1%82%D1%8B-18479/#post220146).

“If thou wilt distract the guard,” whispered Illya, “I will plant the explosive.”

“Excuse me?” said Napoleon.

“I said, I will plant the explosive if you will distract the guard.”

“All right.” While Illya set off on his task, Napoleon assumed the persona of a drunken tourist and weaved down the alley toward the beret-wearing, machine-gun-toting THRUSHie. It was a well-practiced act, and that was just as well – Napoleon was feeling pretty distracted himself.

Of course it had just been a slip of the tongue. The Russian had only been in America a few months; subtle points of usage still tripped him up. And he had been educated in England, where they threw their _thee_ s around like confetti. Still, Napoleon had to wonder…

* * *

On the speedboat back to the mainland, they finally had a chance to catch their breath.

“Well,” said Napoleon, “I think that worked out about as well as it could have.”

“Yes,” said Illya. “You did a fine job dealing with the guard. Even if I had to rescue you from those alligators.”

“And you did a fine job with that bomb – even if _I_ had to rescue _you_ from Madame Lemoineau.”

Illya, concentrating on the moonlit water ahead of them, made no reply. Napoleon hesitated for a moment, gnawing his lip, and then decided to break the silence. “You called me 'thee' earlier.”

Illya glanced back at him, then returned his gaze to the water. “Too soon?”

“Not at all,” said Napoleon. He took a breath and plunged ahead: “I thought thou never wouldst.”


	5. Harlequin Presents

* * *

**A professional affair…**

With a brand built on independence, self-made millionaire Illya Kuryakin can't afford to accept help from anyone. So when he makes dangerous enemies, he needs a bodyguard who _looks_ like anything but.

Paulina Solo is a talented security professional – and a rank amateur at love. So when her latest assignment requires her to pose as the icy Russian's fiancée, she's assumes it will be easy to keep it a purely business arrangement.

But neither of them counted on how attractive – or how alluringly inaccessible – the other would be. And when sparks fly between them, both Paulina's professionalism and Illya's independence threaten to go up in smoke…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much inspired by the above-quoted portion of [this](http://image.farm/image/2KMj7) publicity photo. Yes, that's Stefanie Powers's hand.
> 
> The more I think about it, the more I think the situation I devised for this would work better, characterization-wise, if Illya's and Napoleon's roles were reversed. But that would probably strain the formula too much: in a Presents book, the Exotic Ethnic Person and the Highly Masculine Hero are almost always one and the same.


End file.
